


stand up, the future is near

by itsthebat



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kinda, M/M, Oikawa is dead, but hes a ghost, he haunts iwaizumi, not told chronologically, oikawa and iwaizumi have a stablished relationship, so hes there, this is a wild ride buckle up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 12:17:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18549607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsthebat/pseuds/itsthebat
Summary: Oikawa Tooru dies, but he still haunts Hajime—literally.





	stand up, the future is near

Hajime’s _tired_.

                “I know you miss him,” they say, and it’s starting to piss him off. “It’s okay to mourn, but you’ve got to get on with your life.” It’s always the same watery eyes, the same words, and it’s starting to look like they don’t really mean it. “He wouldn’t want you to stop your life for him.” He _would_ , because he’s an attention whore and he always liked it when people thought about him. “You can’t do this to yourself, Hajime.” _Look at me_.

                Hajime can stand them; he can bear with them and let them speak all they want. He knows, this is some weird form of mourning: tell Iwaizumi Hajime all they want to hear themselves. He knows that when someone says, “You were such good friends!” they are projecting. Everyone wanted to be his friend, it’s normal they are upset, and it’s normal they are trying to cope with it by telling Hajime.

                But this is the final straw.

                His mom looks at him with glassy eyes, her lips pursed. She looks like she’s been crying, Hajime realizes. It’s been a month already, he thought that by now she would’ve stopped with the crying—he was like a son to her, too, but Hajime can’t forget what words she said last to him. Or rather, what she _didn’t_ say to him. He digs his nails into his thigh to stop himself from cringing.

                She sits next to him and looks at the cup of tea, as if it contained all the answers she was looking for. “Hajime,” she says.

                That’s all she says. She’s not even looking at him in the eye—she hadn’t looked at him in the eyes since he told her, really. Hajime’s not sure why she invited him over tonight, if she doesn’t want to look at him. He wants to scream, to shout, to bang his fists on the table. _Look at me_ , he wants to say, _I’m not a monster_.

                He doesn’t say anything of this. Instead, he sips at his tea silently, ignores the way his mom looks at him when his lips touch the teacup. Hajime ignores the way she keeps looking everywhere but him. He’d ignore her altogether, if it wasn’t for the way she’s fumbling nervously with the mantelpiece, thinking of something Hajime doesn’t even want to imagine.

                “Son,” she tries again. The words do not taste well, because she grimaces. “Your father and I have been talking, and we think this is a good idea.”

                He doesn’t ask what’s a good idea. He keeps quiet, lets his mom talk—the sooner she says whatever she wants to say, the sooner he can go.

                She looks like she want to run away, but instead grips the mantelpiece harder and forces herself to say, “There’s this girl that lives across town. She’s really nice, and we’d thought—”

                “I—This—Are you trying to _marry me off_?”

                There are so many things Hajime can get through—hordes of people telling him they are sorry for his loss, his family ignoring his existence, his mom not being able to loo him in the eye—but this is the last straw. He gets up from the chair without waiting for an answer. His mom rises too, and she yanks at the mantelpiece. The teacups fall to the floor and break into a million little pieces; Hajime considers helping her pick them up, but decides against it.

                She doesn’t even want him here. This was all a poor excuse to try and make him the son she wanted him to be, to try and get back her reputation. Before all that happened, she was the queen of the neighbourhood, after all. She had a perfect house with a perfect husband and a perfect son that wasn’t so perfect after all.

                “Hajime,” she says, desperately. Hajime, already at the door, turns around. His mom is on the floor, dress getting dirty with tea. She’s got tears streaming down his face, and maybe she wasn’t crying for the reason Hajime thought. “ _Hajime_ , I just want you back.”

                _Back_ , like he went somewhere and never came back. _Back_ , as if he wasn’t abandoned at all.

                He doesn’t bother answering. He slams the door shut, hears his father screaming something, but Hajime doesn’t turn back. He feels the tattletale sign of tears, but he won’t let them fall, not for his mom, not for anyone—it’s been a long time since his mom told him she didn’t want to see him again; he shouldn’t have let his hopes up. He shouldn’t have been this foolish.

                The cold air stings and bites at his skin—his jacket. He forgot his jacket. Well. It’s not as if he’s going back to retrieve it. He’d rather have a cold than his mom crying and begging at him to come back, to be the son she knew he was.

                Hajime shivers, and he tells himself that’s why he enters the bar. He’s cold, and that’s what he tells himself is the reason for the shot he orders. He’s still cold, so he orders another. And another. He knows how to catch a train, and his apartment is only a train away, so it’s fine. He can always call Matsukawa—he knows he never went away.

                There aren’t that many people, so it’s not very noisy. Some American music is blasting on the speakers, but apart from that there’s not much that Hajime can preoccupy himself with—some muscled, forty-something men playing cards and drinking whiskey; a boy and a girl drinking shots and laughing; a guy his age drinking by himself and a group of girls chatting animatedly.

                Hajime smiles, because he remembers when he came here with the team to drink after a game. They were all underage, and it’s not like any of them really liked to drink, but the bartender knew all of them and let them have a few drinks before he kicked them out of the bar. There was one time, after their last game at Nationals, when the captain made them come even though none of them wanted to. He ordered drinks for everyone, started talking about how great a team they were, how proud he was. Even Hajime cried a bit.

                He surprises himself now, when he feels something wet in his cheeks and realizes there are tears there. Why is he crying? He doesn’t have any real motive. He’s not going to cry because of his mom and her disappointment, and he’s _definitely_ not going to cry because of the friend he’s supposed to be mourning.

                Another shot is ordered, and another shot is downed, and Hajime can’t feel his toes. It’s raining outside, and the music is gentler now, like a lullaby that’s ordering him to sleep. Stupid vodka. He shouldn’t drink when he’s upset—and tomorrow he has practice.

                “Are you okay?” someone chuckles. Hajime turns his head to the voice.

                It’s the man about his age. At first he looks a little blurry, but when Hajime’s vision focuses he concludes that he’s pretty. And that he knows him—he rings a bell, but he’s too drunk to think about it now. He tilts his head. “Hm?”

                “Are you okay? You look a little lost.”

                Isn’t saying that to someone you just met rude? Hajime thinks it’s rude, but the stranger’s face is a far too pretty sight to tell him to fuck off. He’s drinking something pink. Shit. That reminds Hajime of someone. He asks for another shot.

                “My mom just tried to marry me off to some girl,” he says. The man raises an eyebrow. “She hasn’t come up to terms with the fact that I am very, very _not_ into girls.” At this, both of his eyebrows rise; maybe Hajime shouldn’t have said that. “Unless you’re also like my mom—in that case, I am very, very into girls.” What is he even saying? “I just don’t want to get into a fight tonight, okay.”

                The man laughs. It’s an honest-to-god laugh, and Hajime stares. It’s been a while since he last heard one of those.

                “I don’t care that you’re gay, Iwaizumi.” The sound of his name in the stranger’s lips sounds pretty, too. Everything about him is pretty—wait.

                “I didn’t tell you my name,” he slurs. When did he get so drunk? Maybe he _did_ tell his name and just doesn’t remember.

                “It wasn’t necessary. If you weren’t this drunk, maybe you’d remember me too.” He flashes a grin and bows his head. “Does the name _Yahaba_ ring any bells?”

                Oh, shit. It does. Hajime doesn’t exactly know how many facial expressions he passes by, but Yahaba—and someone else, but Hajime doesn’t want to acknowledge him tonight, not yet—laughs. It’s another honest laugh, and Hajime all but swoons. He eyes the new shot the bartender has brought, but he doesn’t drink it.

                Hajime smiles sheepishly. “Sorry.”

                Yahaba waves a hand in the air—or maybe both, Hajime isn’t sure if it’s just that he’s seeing double. “It’s okay. But, you know,” he leans in, “I’m also very, very not into girls.”

                Hajime catches the scent of something before Yahaba pulls away to slurp at his drink. Apple, maybe tangerine. Something citrusy. Something he’d like to keep smelling—no, that sounds weird. He shakes his head to stop it from spinning, and takes the shot. He gulps it down, cringes at the taste, and watches Yahaba watch him.

                “How did you know?” Yahaba asks. Hajime doesn’t know if he’s drunk or not, but the pink in Yahaba’s cheeks makes him blush—no idea why.

                “How did I know what?”

                “That you were gay.”

                The group of girls is long gone. The boy and girl are still chatting loudly and the men are drinking beer now. The bartender is talking to the phone. No one is paying him any mind, and yet Hajime feels horribly exposed. Yahaba plays with the straw of his drink—is it cranberry juice? Maybe vodka—and there are a pair of eyes fixed on his neck that Hajime is having trouble ignoring. Damnit.

                “You don’t have to answer that,” Yahaba adds. He looks embarrassed. “I always figured you and Oikawa were together anyway. Ha. Were you?”

                “Not really,” he answers. He orders another shot. He downs it immediately. Hajime doesn’t want to talk about Oikawa with him looking. He’s been oddly silent tonight. “What about you?”

                Yahaba shrugs. “I never looked at girls like others did, y’know? Wasn’t my thing.”

                “Yeah,” Hajime agrees. He feels like he’s going to be sick.

                “I’m going to the bathroom.” He winks at Hajime before he goes, and Hajime doesn’t know what to make of it.

                He doesn’t want to keep talking to Yahaba, because he’s never been good at small talk, but he doesn’t want to go either. He thinks of Yahaba, older now, more handsome with his pretty eyes and pretty hair and pretty blush, his tangerine scent, and Hajime’s never been good at small talk but maybe small talk isn’t what Yahaba actually wants.

                _It was an invitation_ , someone whispers behind him. Hajime shivers when he feels air blown into his neck and he can practically _see_ the sly smile. Yahaba didn’t ask him how he was doing or gave his condolences; even though what they were having could barely be called a chat, it’s the first person in months who hasn’t treated Hajime differently because he was supposed to be mourning.

                He stands up abruptly, and regrets it immediately when blood rushes to his head. Hajime almost falls once, twice, but finally stands his ground. The bartender and men are looking at him funny, but he couldn’t give a fuck about them. It’s been awhile since he last kissed someone, but he’s never been a bad kisser so that shouldn’t be a problem.

                Yahaba is getting out of the bathroom when he sees Hajime. He breaks into a smile and makes grabby motions with his hands; Hajime complies. He wraps his hands around Yahaba and kisses him sound on the lips. They walk back to the bathroom stall and Yahaba pulls at Hajime’s hair and Hajime moans. At this, Yahaba giggles and breaks the kiss, “They are going to kick us out.” Hajime smooths his smile with his finger and then kisses him again.

                Hajime doesn’t mean to. But as Yahaba presses their lips together—it is tangerine he smells like—Hajime goes back seven years, to their last match against Shiratorizawa, to their captain buying him drinks. The very same bathroom stall he’s in right now, but with another person. Yahaba pushes his leg in between Hajime’s and he moans louder. Hajime remembers their captain, and he doesn’t want to say his name, not even when he’s thinking about him, but somehow he whispers, “ _Tooru_ …”

                Yahaba stops kissing him. Hajime stares at his long lashes, how his eyes open slowly, before realizing his mistake. When he does, he panics. He takes a step back and almost falls to the floor. “Sorry. I’m—fuck. Yahaba, I didn’t—”

                “It’s fine,” Yahaba says nonchalantly. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks kind of amused. “Don’t sweat it, Iwaizumi.”

                “Fuck,” Hajime repeats. Tooru’s voice is louder now, he’s asking, telling him to relax, but Hajime just wants to get out of here. “I’m, I’m sorry. I have to—go.”

                He gives the bartender a couple of bills. Hajime doesn’t really mind that he’s given him enough or less or whatever—he’s not going to come back to this forsaken town anymore, because all he does here is get hurt. By his mom, by himself. It’s not _fair_.

                It’s freezing outside. Hajime takes a total of five steps before he hunches over and heaves. There goes his dinner. And breakfast, by the looks of it. He wipes the tears from his face when he’s done, and stumbles until he collides against a wall; he can use it for support. He knows where the train station is, and if he gets lost, he has someone to guide him.

                “Are you okay?” Tooru asks, hovering above him. The worried look he sports looks honest, more honest than it ever did when he was alive, and Hajime wishes he could punch his pretty nose. “You shouldn’t have drunk all that.”

                “Home,” Hajime rasps. If he’s fast, he can catch the last train.

                “Let me help.” Tooru locks their arms together. Hajime lets his head rest against his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

 

Tooru looks like he wants to combust.

                Tooru’s mom looks at him funny, grips the mantelpiece and tries not to look at anything but Tooru—it’s obvious what she’s thinking: _if Hajime’s here, it’s because it’s serious_. Hajime’s family has always got along very well with the Oikawa family, but it’s not often that Tooru and Hajime tell their parents things together. The last time they were like this was two years ago, when they were twenty-two, and Tooru told their parents he couldn’t play volleyball anymore because of his knee.

                Now Hajime’s mom looks at both boys, gripping her teacup with a little too much force. Both mothers are tense, and Tooru and Hajime, twenty-four, looking dead serious does nothing to alleviate the tension. Hajime’s thankful his dad is working.

                “Mom,” Tooru says, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “Aunt,” he says, eyeing Hajime’s mom. Hajime wants to grab his hand, tell him it’s gonna be okay because no matter what they say, they are going to be there for each other. But he does nothing. “I have something to tell you both.” He chuckles, probably because some funny thought he’s just had. “I’m not gonna die or anything so you can relax—”

                Tooru’s mom sighs. Hajime’s says, “Sweetheart, you’re going to give us a heart attack.”

                For the first time since they got here, Tooru looks at Hajime. His big, brown eyes look for Hajime and when they find him, he cracks the tiniest of smiles. Hajime thinks of two nights ago, when he was kissing him under the stars, and looks away. Tooru puffs his chest and smiles brightly—it’s the smile he flashes when he’s nervous but doesn’t want to let it on.

                “I—” He exhales. For a moment, Hajime thinks he’s going to chicken out. “I’m gay.”

                But Oikawa Tooru’s been never one to chicken out.

                “ _I told Sugawara Koushi_ ,” Tooru told him, a year ago. They were sitting on a bench in a park, eating ice cream like five-years-old. Tooru was fidgeting with the hem of his shirt then, too. He’d just told Hajime that he was gay. “ _We played in the same team in college, y’know, and after a match it was just him and me. And he told me something like ‘man, I’m exhausted’ and I was like,_ me too _. Suga asked me why, because I had been benched the whole fucking time_.” He chuckles. When Hajime looked at him, he glowed. “ _And I just told him. He looked at me and… he just laughed. He said ‘cool’ and asked me how I felt. I just said ‘okay’ or something like that because he was the very first person I told and I was so nervous I thought I was gonna puke. But now, when I think about it…_ ” Tooru looked back at Hajime—he looked happy, happier than Hajime had seen him in a long time. “ _I felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Like I could breathe_ again.”

                Now Hajime can’t breathe. He looks at his mom—she slaps her hands against her mouth and gasps, checking out Tooru from feet to head, as if he’s just changed. He looks at Tooru’s mom—she stands still for a moment, holding the mantelpiece like a safe-line. She and Tooru seem to be having some kind of staring contest, and Hajime knows that it’s bad when Tooru’s lip starts to wobble.

                She stands up suddenly, almost dragging the mantelpiece and teacups with her. _Don’t do this to him_ , Hajime thinks, but it’s too late. Hajime’s mom is sobbing, and Tooru’s mom is pointing to the door. “Get out,” she says, deadly serious.

                “Mom,” Tooru mutters helplessly.

                “Get out of this house,” his mom says again. She shows no signs of emotion, and Hajime can’t believe this is the woman that nursed him back to health when he was little and sick. He can’t believe his mom is crying just next to her, weeping like she’s lost a son.

                Tooru grabs his jacket. He flips his mom off, tells her, “Fuck you,” and storms out. Hajime follows, not looking back, not even once, despite his mom calling for him.

                When they are back in Tooru’s place Hajime prepares tea and Tooru throws a blanket over him and curls into himself on the sofa. Hajime hears him swear and curse his mom, but he also holds him tight when he cries, tea forgotten.

 

* * *

 

 

Hajime groans into his pillow, exhausted.

                He has the worst headache he’s had in his life, and when he checks his phone—after squinting at the screen for five minutes until his eyes adjusted—he swears. He had practice this morning. He’s got a thousand messages from the team and another bunch of missed calls. He groans again, burying his face into the pillow again. He’s already late to everything, what does it matter that he sleeps a bit more?

                Beside him Tooru whines. Hajime ignores him in favour of trying to recall what happened last night—he knows that he went to a bar after his mom proposed a girl for him to marry (ugh) and then drunk himself silly (double ugh) but after that, everything’s blank.

                Tooru whines louder. “ _Iwa-chan_ ,” he moans; Hajime can hear the smile on his face. “It’s past two in the afternoon. You should eat something.”

                “Are you my _mom_?” He chuckles when Tooru gasps, betrayed by his own joke. But Hajime knows it’s true; he should get up already.

                “Do you wanna know what happened yesterday?”

                _Not really_ , Hajime thinks. “What?” he grumbles instead.

                He knows he’d been trying to ignore Tooru’s existence, because yesterday was his one-month anniversary—one month without Oikawa Tooru in the world; Hajime still has him, but everyone had been sending him messages about it and Hajime was pissed off—but that’s it. He doesn’t remember anything. “You were ignoring me,” Tooru says. Hajime chuckles again, and Tooru hits him without conviction; he knows what day was yesterday too. “You remember what happened with your mom, right? I can’t believe—the _nerve_. Anyway, you went to a bar and met Yahaba. Remember?”

                Shit, he does. _Fuck_. Tooru keeps talking, but Hajime doesn’t hear him. Yahaba was in the bar too; Hajime told him about his mom and that he was gay, and then kissed him. And _then_ whispered Tooru’s name when they were making out.

                “It was embarrassing,” Tooru mumbles, drawing patterns with his hand on Hajime’s back. Hajime groans and rolls over to face Tooru; he’s got his eyes closed, thinking. “Iwa-chan,” he whispers. He leans in, and brushes his lips against Hajime’s—his ghost lips are cool and smooth, and he moves away far too soon in Hajime’s opinion. “Do you like me?”

                “What kinda question is that?” Hajime asks, shoving him out of the bed. Tooru yelps. “I already have a headache, don’t make it worse.”

                “ _Mean_ , Iwa-chan!”

                “Shut up and bring me some painkillers.”

                Tooru grumbles something under his breath, but obediently floats away. Hajime flops down on his bed, tired; he hasn’t even done anything and he already feels like he could sleep for a whole month. He hasn’t been sleeping well since Tooru died, and it’s driving him crazy. He gets hit by the ball more often than not in practice, and the coach has been benching him for weeks. It’s been ages since he played in a match.

                Hajime’s reading messages when Tooru comes back with painkillers and a glass of water. Quietly, he places them on the nightstand and floats away—before he can get away, Hajime grabs him by the wrist. Tooru sighs. “You’re awfully needy when you’ve got a hangover.”

                “Where are you going?” He asks, ignoring him.

                “To haunt you mom,” he says, grinning. Hajime rolls his eyes. Tooru clicks his tongue and crouches until he’s at eye level with Hajime. “I’m not going to vanish, Hajime.”

                It always makes him feel butterflies inside his stomach, when Tooru says his name, especially like this. A whisper, but not exactly. With want, but not lust. Tooru cups his face with a hand, and Hajime tries very hard to ignore the fact that Tooru is dead.

                “I’ll be back in an hour.” Tooru gets up, and as fast as the moment began, it ends. “Call Suga. Or Kuroo. Hell, call Kageyama, for all I care, but tell someone on your team you’re not dead.”

                “Yes, _mom_ ,” Hajime says. Tooru throws a pillow at him before he disappears.

                Hajime fucks around for twenty minutes before he actually gets out of bed. He takes a shower, because he’s smelly and he feels his hands sticky with alcohol from yesterday. He thinks about Yahaba, how much of a jerk Hajime was to him, and wonders if he still has his phone number; he could send a message, say he’s sorry—and then what? Yahaba didn’t look like it, but Hajime is almost sure Yahaba was as drunk as him. Maybe he doesn’t remember a thing. But maybe he does, and Hajime isn’t sure which option he prefers.

                There’s not much to eat, so Hajime makes himself a sandwich and flops on the couch. There’s a couple new texts he hasn’t opened. He really should call someone, because even though he sleeps like a zombie—zombies don’t sleep, ha, get the joke?—he never skips practice.

                Hajime sighs and opens the texts. There are thirty—holy hell—from Kuroo. A couple are from his coach, and Suga has sent him three.

                _re u kay????_ **09:04**

                _its okay if u dont wanna come tday_ **09:04**

                _ill tell evryone your sick_ **09:05**

                Bless Sugawara Koushi. Not only because he always knows what’s going on, but because he never asks any questions. He texts him a quick reply telling him that he went out yesterday and forgot to set up an alarm and throws his phone away—Suga’ll tell the others that he’s fine. Hajime doesn’t really care, at this point. It doesn’t matter that he goes to practice or not, because coach doesn’t think he’s in the right mind to let him play. The bench is his, at this point. Everyone looks at him quietly, and Hajime knows they are being careful with what they say around him. When a ball hits him, when he trips and falls, everyone is quick in asking if he’s okay. Like he’s made from glass.

                All of this, because stupid Tooru went and died.

                Hajime turns on the TV and settles on a documentary about tigers. Anything is better than leaving him alone with his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time he kisses a girl, Hajime feels wrong.

                They are at Hanamaki’s house and it’s late and he’s seventeen and he’s kissing a girl. Well, she is the one kissing him, because Hajime is still trying to process everything that’s happened since he came. Oikawa and Hajime were the firsts to come—apart from Matsukawa, but he and Hanamaki are always together, so that’s an exception—but in a blink of an eye the house was crowded.

                Hajime doubts Hanamaki knows this many people. He feels wrong standing there; his face feels hot and the hair on the back of his neck is sticky with sweat. He lost Oikawa a long time ago, and he doesn’t know what to do—he’s never liked parties this big. Someone bumps into him, and Hajime stumbles into a girl. She’s pretty, with pigtails and a blinding smile, and she offers him a glass of something. Hajime takes it and takes a sip, grimacing. The girl laughs. Hajime drinks it all.

                Later, he finds himself flush against a wall, Akane—or was it Akari?—pressed against him. Hajime doesn’t really know how he ended up like this, in a dark room—fuck, is this Hanamaki’s parents’ room?—with a pretty girl kissing him, but this is what you are supposed to do at parties, right? Kiss strangers and make out in the dark. And at first it’s exciting, and he likes the way she kisses his neck, but after a few moments it starts to feel gross.

                The girl moans loudly and puts her hands under Hajime’s shirt. She says something, but Hajime doesn’t catch it, and then she’s biting his lip hard. He yelps. Akane giggles. “You’re really cute,” she whispers into his ear. She rubs against him, and then catches his hands and places them over her chest. “Is this your first time?”

                Hajime opens and closes his mouth like a gaping fish. He doesn’t want to do this, he realizes. He’s panicking. Where’s Oikawa? He shouldn’t have abandoned him. Is this what he does with his girlfriends?

                “Hajime?” Akane mumbles, kissing his jaw. Why is she calling him by his first name? She cups his face, presses her lips against the corner of his mouth and makes some noise. “Is everything okay?”

                She sways a little when Hajime pushes her away. He feels hotter now, making his way through the people, trying to find some place quiet. He feels wrong, antsy, and he wants to take a bath. Hajime thinks of Akane’s lips over his skin and _cringes_. Is this because it was his first time kissing a girl? She was pretty, she was a good kisser. Then why did it revolt him _so much_?            

                He comes across a half-open door, and Hajime is about to enter when he hears something he’s not supposed to hear. Slowly, carefully, he cracks the door open and sees Matsukawa pressed against the wall, grabbing at someone’s hair and moaning loudly. Hajime is frozen in place, watching as Matsukawa slips a hand under Hanamaki’s pants. Neither notice Hajime, and he wants to close the door, run away (he feels like he’s going to be sick) but he can’t tear his eyes away.

                Matsukawa and Hanamaki are always together, but Hajime never thought they were close like _that_. He watches as Hanamaki says something into the other’s ear, and Matsukawa laughs softly, biting Hanamaki’s earlobe in response. They break the kiss and start talking, soft whispers against flushed skin, and Hajime feels something like want pull him from inside.

                He finds the will to close the door and turn around, close his eyes and try to sort his thoughts. He’s confused and antsy and he feels wrong in all the possible ways, like he wants to crawl out of his body. Hajime’s running to the bathroom on autopilot. When he opens the door he startles a couple, but he doesn’t care because he’s vomiting into the toilet.

                He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but when Oikawa comes Hajime is pressing his forehead against the cold ceramic, the only thing that anchors him right now, the only thing that keeps him from drifting away. Oikawa locks the door behind him and kneels beside Hajime. He starts rubbing circles on Hajime’s back and murmur soothing words Hajime doesn’t really hear.

                “I kissed a girl,” he blurts out.

                Oikawa opens his eyes wide in surprise, then snickers. “Was it fun?”

                “No.”

                The smug expression washes out from Oikawa’s face. He sets the cup he was carrying on the floor. “Iwaizumi,” he says. _Uh-oh_ , he only calls him Iwaizumi when he’s dead serious. “Iwaizumi, did she do something?”

                Hajime feels like he’s going to cry. So he does. Big, fat tears roll down his cheeks—Oikawa is practically hyperventilating, and he’s got his phone out. “I’m going to call Hanamaki. Do you know what the girl looks like?”

                “She didn’t do anything,” Hajime says, sniffing. Oikawa stops dialling Hanamaki’s number, all eyes on Hajime. “I—it felt so wrong, Oikawa. Like, like… I wanted to _die_.”

                “Are you sure she didn’t do anything?” Oikawa asks again. Hajime wants to disappear.

                He shakes his head, sobbing. God, he’s a mess. He just kissed a girl. “It felt wrong and disgusting and—and—”

                “Iwaizumi,” Oikawa says, flashing a reassuring smile. “It’s okay if you don’t like girls.”

                Hajime starts. Is that it? That’s why he felt gross and why he didn’t like it? Because he doesn’t like girls? He opens his mouth, but he has nothing to say. He remembers Hanamaki and Matsukawa, how he couldn’t stop looking. Hajime feels himself blushing.

                Oikawa laughs. “C’mon.” He stands up and helps Hajime do the same. “Let’s get out of here. I’m hungry, and Hanamaki doesn’t have any real food. I’ll treat you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Someone starts pounding at the door. Hajime seriously starts considering murder as an option.

                “I’m _coming_ ,” he seethes. He’d ignore the pounding of his head, if it didn’t hurt so damn much.

                It’s been three hours since Tooru went away, and Hajime knows for a fact that this isn’t Tooru. First, Tooru can pass through things, so he wouldn’t knock on the door; second, Hajime’s heard two voices outside, and he’s the only one who can see and hear Tooru, so it’s definitely not him.

                When he opens the door, Sugawara looks at him and mouths _I’m sorry_. Hanamaki enters laughing and Kuroo grins big and follows his steps. Hajime looks at Suga for answers, head throbbing. “Told them you were sick,” he says. “They insisted on paying you a visit. Is this okay? We can go.”

                Hajime considers his options: he can tell them to fuck off, but that would raise more questions than the ones already unanswered. He can let them stay; he’s going to suffer, Hajime knows, but at least that’d calm them. He sighs, letting Suga in.

                “I hate you,” he mutters.

                “You really don’t,” Suga shoots back.

                Hajime ends up sitting on the floor, because his couch isn’t that big and his friends hate him. The throbbing of his head hasn’t stopped, and Hajime is sure he’s going to end up drunk again, because Hanamaki brought beers and Kuroo brought fucking _cheese_.

                “I like cheese,” he says. Hajime wrinkles his nose. Kuroo rolls his eyes. “You know, fancy people drink wine and eat cheese and it’s one of the best things ever.”

                “This is beer,” Hanamaki retorts.

                “And the cheese they eat is good cheese. This cheese is cheap,” Suga adds. 

                “Whatever,” Kuroo says, eating cheese and taking a swig. “Iwaizumi, aren’t you gonna drink?”

                Hajime opens his mouth to answer— “He better not,” Tooru mumbles behind him. Hajime grunts. “No, thanks.”

                “Why not?” Hanamaki presses. He offers him a bottle. “C’mon, you know you want one.”

                “Guys—” Suga tries, uselessly.

                “Just a sip,” Kuroo says.

                Hajime looks at the beer, _smells_ it, and everything comes up at once. He bolts to the bathroom, and pukes. There goes his sandwich. Hanamaki and Kuroo laugh back in the living room. Hajime hates his friends.

                Tooru looms over him. “Nasty,” he says.

                “I knew you were drinking yesterday!” Kuroo shouts. “Yahaba told Hanamaki he saw you! He asked how you were doing!”

                _Fuck_. “Not very well, I see!” Hanamaki screams.

                “Your life sucks.” Tooru grins. Hajime bats at him until he leaves him alone.

                When he comes back to the living room, Hanamaki is channel hopping while the rest looks. However, when they see Hajime, the TV is forgotten. They ask how was Yahaba, and if he got too drunk, and that coach is going to kill him. Nothing new. Hajime notices that they only ask if Yahaba was is, what is up with his life—they don’t ask about kisses, and they don’t ask about Tooru. Yahaba doesn’t remember, or he decided not to tell anyone about their accident.

                It’s exhausting, having them over today. Hajime just wants to curl up in bed, wrap as many blankets as possible around him and sleep. Maybe he’ll let Tooru join, if he’s nice. He almost falls asleep while the guys are talking about Kuroo’s new apartment, and as interesting as the prospect of future matches (he’s not going to play in) sounds, Hajime tells them to please let him rest in peace.

                They go away when it’s dark outside. Suga turns to him before leaving and whispers, “You know you can count on me for anything.” When he closes the door, Hajime presses his back against it and slides down until he’s on the floor. His face is burning and he feels like he’s going to pass out. Tooru is chewing on a strawberry when he comes back to the living room—he doesn’t like being around living people he used to know. Hajime doesn’t dwell on it, because it makes him sad.

                “You are red,” he says, crouching down. He presses a hand against Hajime’s forehead and hisses. “You are hot, Hajime.”

                “I already know that,” Hajime concedes, smirking.

                Tooru rolls his eyes. When had they changed places? “How did you manage to get yourself a _fever_?”

                “Lady luck hates me these days,” he says. It’s not exactly a lie. Tooru sighs and helps him to his feet. “Can you make dinner?”

                “Is there even food in your fridge?”

                “Good point.”

                Tooru sighs again. “Hajime—”

                “No,” Hajime says. He already knows what Tooru is going to say. “I don’t want to hear it now.”

                “You never want,” Tooru grumbles. “We’ll have to talk about it sometime.”

                “I’ll order food.” There’s a place he know Tooru likes nearby. Surprisingly, ghosts still need to eat.

 

* * *

 

 

Hajime starts seeing Tooru a couple days after the funeral.

                He’s picking at his rice and watching TV, all the lights off. He hasn’t showered in days, and he really should shave because his face is starting to itch. His phone is buried deep in his nightstand, because he receives a hundred messages an hour asking how he’s doing, if he needs any help—Suga has come several times with food and a shoulder to cry on, but Hajime hasn’t opened the door.

                Coach is going to kill him, when he comes back, but Hajime doesn’t mind dying right now, really. The doctor he went to see—Suga all but dragged him there—prescribed some sleeping pills, but Hajime is too afraid to ingest any. Maybe it’s for the best, that he doesn’t play volleyball for now. Maybe it’s for the best that he doesn’t see anyone now. His friends know Hajime is not okay, but one thing is knowing about it and other thing completely is _seeing_ it. 

                He sighs. He’s not even hungry, why did he make rice? Hajime stares at the TV blankly, without really seeing. He’s tired—he’s tried to sleep, but every time he closes his eyes he sees Tooru, lazy smile and chocolate eyes looking at him, asking him what he wants for breakfast. Tooru was the morning person, after all. He loved to wake up at ass o’clock and make the most delicious breakfasts.

                Hajime thought they had their whole lives ahead of them. He knows Tooru wanted to do something this summer; go to some fancy place. “You are a famous volleyball player, Iwa-chan!” He always said. “You can afford it.”

                Why didn’t they go sooner? What fucking _stopped_ them? If only they’d realized their feelings sooner. _A year_ , that’s how long they dated. A fucking year. Sometimes Hajime thinks it would’ve been better if they hadn’t started going out at all—because that way, Hajime wouldn’t be here right now. That way, Tooru wouldn’t have died.

                _Fuck_. What is he supposed to do now?

                “Iwa-chan,” someone whispers behind him. Hajime doesn’t turn around, shocked, tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m gone a couple of days, and you’re already a mess!”

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes he wonders if he’s gone crazy.

                Maybe that’s why he sees Tooru; he isn’t a ghost at all, but his imagination playing tricks on him. Hajime misses Tooru so much that he’s made up a fucking ghost out of his memory. Like an imaginary friend, but with his dead boyfriend; he’s looked it up on the Internet more than once, when he can’t sleep, and it frightens him.

                But Hajime doesn’t dwell on it. If Tooru is part of his imagination, then so be it—Hajime doesn’t mind as long as he doesn’t go away without warning again.

                “I thought you had practice today,” Suga says, pulling down his facemask. He yawns, and Hajime notices that the bags under his eyes are even darker than the last time he saw him.

                “How long have you been working?” He shoots back.

                Suga checks the clock and wipes his hands on his scrubs. “Fourteen hours, more or less—don’t look at me like that!”

                Hajime rolls his eyes. “You should sleep.”

                Suga yawns again. “I already know that.” He flops down on the chair and brushes some strands out of the way (his hair is so long, when did it get that long?). “But someone asked me to cover them, and what could I say?”

                “You could’ve said no? Besides, you can’t come watch practice if you’re gonna fall asleep in the middle of it.”

                He chuckles and waves a hand in the air. “Why haven’t _you_ gone to practice?”

                Hajime cringes at the memory. Apparently, the day of his hangover there was an important reunion he really should’ve gone, being the vice-captain and all that; Hajime forgot, and the coach told him not to come back until he sorted his thoughts out for good. “You’re too distracted,” he’d yelled, exasperated. “I’m sorry for your loss, Hajime, but the team needs you more now than ever. If you’re not going to be at your best, then don’t come back at all.”

                He doesn’t tell this to Suga, because the last thing he wants is to worry him even more. “I wasn’t feeling very well.”

                There’s a glint in Suga’s eyes that makes Hajime feel exposed, as if Suga could see past his lies, as if he could see the ghost hovering over them, taking a nap mid-air. Tooru snores softly, and Hajime resists the urge to look upwards at him. Tooru follows him practically everywhere now, whereas before (when he was alive) he used to stay home when Hajime went out. Maybe that’s another sign that Hajime is making him up.

                “Can adults have imaginary friends?” Hajime blurts out.

                Tooru opens his eyes at that, curious. Shit. Hajime shouldn’t have said anything—also, Suga is a _nurse_ , not a psychologist. He looks at him funny. “Yeah,” he says. _Fuck_. “Why?”

                “Just curious.” Who’s going to believe that? Hajime is a volleyball player that hasn’t practically left his apartment in the last month, why the hell would he want to know about adults and imaginary friends?

                Suga doesn’t ask any further questions, though Hajime isn’t sure that’s good; he can almost hear the engines turning inside his head. “It’s not really uncommon to have imaginary friends, even when you’re a grown-up. Usually adults have imaginary friends when they are going through a painful or difficult time. Sometimes it has something to do with psychological problems, though.” He taps his chin, pensive. “It may vary.”

                “Oh,” Hajime says, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

                Suga flashes him a smile. “It’s a really interesting topic. Did you read about it somewhere?”

                Hajime shakes his head. Suga rises an eyebrow. Hajime feels himself blush. “I mean, yeah. Someone sent me an article a couple days ago and I just remembered.”

                “Ooh, can you send it to me?”

                This is not how this was supposed to go. Hell, Hajime shouldn’t have opened his big mouth. “Okay.” He’ll look for something on the Internet and send it to Suga. It’s not like there aren’t a thousand articles about it on the Internet—Hajime’s read almost all of them.

                “Are you ready to talk about it yet?” Tooru asks. Hajime ignores him. “I’m dead, Iwa-chan! You shouldn’t be seeing me!”

                “Do you want to have lunch? I’m starving.”

                Suga’s looking at him with his big, doe eyes. Hajime wants to go have lunch with him, he really does, but Tooru won’t shup up. Hajime drags a hand down his face and mumbles, “Please, stop,” but Tooru doesn’t want to hear him.

 

* * *

 

 

He always wants to remember Tooru like this.

                He’s sleeping beside Hajime, blanket thrown over him and covering him from toes to chin. He looks like a kid, even though he’s almost twenty-five, and Hajime can’t tear his eyes away from him. From the way he has his mouth barely open, breathing through it and snoring softly, to the way his eyes flutter, dreaming. From his long lashes, dark against his pale skin, to the strands of hair sticking out of place. Hajime can’t stop looking at any of it, and he wants to throw Tooru into a box so he can keep him forever.

                He’s so fucking _smitten_.

                “Iwa-chan, stop looking at me like that.” Tooru whines, and then rolls over. Hajime grins and places a cold hand against his back, making Tooru yelp. “I hate you,” he grumbles.

                Hajime leans down to kiss him on the neck. Tooru _purrs_. “You don’t,” Hajime whispers against his skin, and Tooru shivers. Is there something better than making Tooru shiver? If there is, Hajime has yet to find it. He kisses him slowly, lazily, and Tooru rolls over again, smacking his lips against Hajime’s.

                “We should get an apartment together, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says between kisses. Hajime doesn’t say anything, but inside he’s exploding. He likes to tease Tooru and make him angry and make him blush, and even though he won’t admit it out loud (not _ever_ ), he doesn’t know what he’d do without him. “Yours is too small and mine is too far away.”

                “Hmm,” Hajime mumbles, cupping Tooru’s cheek and pulling him closer. Tooru tangles their legs together and brushes a hand against Hajime’s hip, making him giggle. “Ticklish,” he slurs.

                “Oh, I _know_ ,” Tooru says. He tickles him again, so Hajime catches his wrists and pins him down. He kisses Tooru’s ear, because he knows he’s ticklish there, and it doesn’t matter how much Tooru kicks or shrieks, Hajime’s always been stronger.

                “Takeru’s coming later,” Tooru says later He’s sprawled over Hajime, kissing him lazily. Hajime hums. Tooru grins. “What do you think about kids, Iwa-chan?”

                Hajime blushes furiously, because he hadn’t thought about kids, not with Tooru, until _now_. Tooru laughs loudly, and Hajime shoves him from the bed because he’s too embarrassed to do anything else.

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s so big,” Tooru says, his hands over his heart. “I miss talking to him.”

                Takeru’s doing homework in his living room while watching TV. Hajime’s not sure if he should let him watch TV while doing homework, but Tooru’s sister didn’t say anything when she dropped him here except for, “Please take care of him I’ve got work and I’m _not_ going to leave him alone at home.”

                The normal thing to do would’ve been leaving Takeru with his grandmother, but ever since Tooru’s mom stopped talking to him because he was gay, his sister also stopped talking to her mom. When Tooru told her he was gay—Hajime had been there too—she looked happier than she’d looked in a long time. She told Tooru, “You finally get to be yourself,” and there were _many_ tears afterwards.

                When Tooru told her about their mom’s reaction, though, his sister wasn’t as happy. She looked at Takeru’s bedroom door, closed, and flushed angrily. She said she couldn’t imagine ever denying her son just because of that. Tooru cried some more.

                Hajime didn’t lose contact with her. When he was with Tooru, they babysat Takeru more often than not. Now that Tooru’s gone, Hajime still babysits him. Even though he’s fifteen and claims he doesn’t need anyone looking after him.

                “Do you think he has a girlfriend, Iwa-chan?” Tooru wonders, floating beside Takeru. “Maybe a boyfriend?” He chuckles. “Do you think gayness has something to do with blood?”

                Hajime is trying to ignore him as much as possible, but it’s pointless. He never really could ignore Tooru when he was alive, so it makes sense he can’t ignore him now that he’s dead. He feels the beginning of a headache build in his temple and sighs.

                “Iwaizumi,” Takeru says, looking at him with bright eyes. “Do you have any snacks?”

                Hajime blushes; he should _really_ go shopping. “Uh, no. But your mom said she packed you something to eat?”

                Takeru groans. “Yeah, a _yogurt_. I hate yogurts.”

                Hajime chuckles. “They are good for you.”

                The boy grumbles something that suspiciously sounds like, “You were fun before,” and goes back to his homework. He reminds Hajime so much of Tooru it almost hurts to look at him, especially when Tooru is looming over, watching him with interest. Hajime wants to scream, tell Tooru to leave him alone, but he can’t find his voice.

                His hands start shaking, Hajime panics and before he can even process what’s going on, he feels tears prickling in his eyes. _Not know_ , he thinks, but his body doesn’t like to listen to him. He walks as calmly as he can to the bathroom, feels Tooru’s eyes burning holes in his back, and he can barely lock the door before he collapses to the floor.

                It’s been ages since he had a panic attack. Damnit, why now? Hajime remembers Tooru lying on him, pressing wet kisses over his chest, brown eyes looking at him like he were the most precious thing in the universe. “ _What do you think about kids, Iwa-chan_?” Hajime hears, over and over again, and it doesn’t matter that he closes his eyes or covers his ears, Tooru’s voice is still there.

                Hajime remember late nights when Tooru was working at the hospital. He prepared tea for himself and sat in front of the computer, looked up how adoption worked. He spent hours and hours in front of the screen, soaking up as much information as he could. It depended if you wanted a boy or a girl or if you wanted the baby to be from Japan or not. Hajime didn’t really care about that, because when he thought about Tooru and him and babies his stomach did something funny and Hajime could swear he was the happiest man alive.

                But he went and died. Stupid Tooru. He always looked before crossing the street, why did he have to die? Hajime remembers the phone call, his world crumbling down. He was going to seriously talk to Tooru about babies that night. “I have a surprise for you too,” Tooru had told him before hanging up the phone, and Hajime remembers the police telling him there were flowers with Tooru on the street. There was also a little box, black with silver stripes, the simplest ring inside.

                Hajime had never liked fancy things, after all.

                “Hajime, breathe through your nose and let it out through your mouth,” Tooru says, crouched in front of him. He grabs Hajime’s hand gently and smiles ever so slightly. “C’mon, you know how to get through this, Iwa-chan.”

                “Stop haunting me,” Hajime spits out, because he can’t take this anymore. He wants Tooru, but this is not _his_ Tooru. He can never be because he’s fucking dead. “Go away. Please,” he sobs, shaking his head, “leave me alone.”

                Tooru pouts. “But Iwa-chan,” he says, rubbing his thumb over Hajime’s palm. “You can’t live without me.”

                Hajime sobs harder. He tries not to, because Takeru is going to hear him, but he can’t keep it in. “Then you shouldn’t have died!”

                This time, Tooru looks sad. Hajime’s never seen Tooru’s ghost look sad. “I didn’t mean to.” A tear rolls down Tooru’s cheek and _fuck_ , Hajime doesn’t want this. “You know you can’t blame me.”

                “Yes I can,” he says, wiping at his nose. “Yes, because you were the one who died! You left me alone!”

                “You don’t mean that, Iwa-chan.”

                “Of course I do!” Hajime screams, letting go of Tooru’s hand.

                “Uncle Iwaizumi?” Takeru mumbles with the tiniest voice. Hajime swears under his breath, trying to even out his breathing, wiping away his tears. Tooru looks at him with big, sad eyes. “Are you okay?”

                No, he’s not. He feels like shit, and he thinks he’s going crazy because seeing the ghost of your dead boyfriend, be it an imaginary friend or a real ghost, is _not_ normal. He stands up, looks himself in the mirror. His reflection stares right back at him, red-eyed and really fucking sad. He splashes water to his face and goes out.

                “Yeah, it’s just allergy,” he says, like a moron, because at this point Iwaizumi Hajime has run out of excuses.

 

* * *

 

 

Hajime really should stop drinking.

                He really should stop doing so many things, actually. Like going out to drink, or talking to Tooru’s ghost—his imaginary friend—whatever the fuck it is that’s haunting him. Because it was fine, before, to have Tooru back. It was fine, having someone to talk to in the mornings, and it was fine, not thinking of Tooru’s death, but he can’t escape from that anymore.

                He drinks his vodka and hears Suga talk, though he’s not really listening. He remembers Tooru drinking his cranberry juice, drunk as fuck after he left the hospital. “I can’t play anymore, so I don’t have to worry about practice tomorrow,” he told Hajime when he suggested that maybe they should go. Tooru flipped him off and slurped at his drink, unbothered, and maybe Hajime should have realized that he liked Tooru more than as a friend back then.

                Tooru’s ghost hovers over them, floating carelessly as people pass through him and laugh with their friends. Hajime bites his tongue and thinks over the words he wants to say, how he’s going to say it. Suga’s not drunk, he never gets drunk—maybe tipsy, but not drunk. Hajime focuses on the mole under his right eye and sighs heavily.

                He misses Tooru more than anything, but he can’t be stuck in the past forever, can he? He drinks some more, alcohol bitter and full of regrets. Hajime kissed Tooru for the first time when he they were both drunk off their asses and celebrating because Hajime’s team won a match.

                Hajime misses volleyball, too. It’s been too long since coach let him play for the last time, and he misses the feeling of the ball touching his hands, the adrenaline pumping through his veins and the pain in his legs when he was about to jump to spike. Hajime feels tears in his eyes and fuck, he should stop crying so much too.

                “You can talk to me,” Suga says, ever so gently. He doesn’t seem surprised by Hajime’s tears—maybe he’s been crying for a while.

                “I don’t know how,” Hajime slurs, wiping at his eyes. Tooru hums behind him, and then laughs and then screams, “I AM DEAD!”

                Hajime cries harder, and this time he sobs, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and his nose is running and he’s a giant mess. People look in their direction, and Hajime is on autopilot, letting himself be dragged by Suga out of the bar. They walk a bit and then they are sitting on a bench and Hajime hasn’t stopped crying.

                “Iwaizumi, have you cried since Tooru died?” Suga asks, taking Hajime’s hand and squeezing.

                Has he _cried_? Hajime didn’t have time to cry after Tooru was run by a car, because he was in shock and then Tooru came back as a ghost. He was happy. He should be happy that Tooru’s here, because Hajime loves him too much to let him go. But he should let him go, right? Tooru died a month ago. Hajime shouldn’t keep him inside a box, as much as he wants to.

                Hajime sobs, ugly, desperate breaths coming from deep within him. “Let yourself mourn,” the doctor told him, a month ago. “Cry as much as you need, Hajime.”

                “I see Tooru,” Hajime pants, grabbing Suga’s hand like a safe-line. “I still see him, every hour of every day and I can’t take it anymore, Sugawara.”

                Suga bites his lip and draws circles on Hajime’s back. And everything takes Hajime back to when he was seventeen and crying in Hanamaki’s bathroom because he kissed a girl and didn’t like it. And when he was eighteen and kissed a boy from the first time, and when he was twenty and broke up with his boyfriend, and when he was twenty-four and pressed his lips against Tooru’s and felt sparks ignite between them.

                He cries the hardest he’s ever cried. And the thing is, Hajime doesn’t want to stop; he can’t barely breathe and his stomach hurts, it hurts so much he wants to _die_.

 

* * *

 

 

Tooru disappears without any warning.

                At first, Hajime doesn’t know how to live in a world without Oikawa Tooru. He feels empty and hollow and doesn’t get up from his bed in days. It feels terrible, and Hajime finds himself staring at the sleeping pills the doctor recommended taking a month ago more often than not. It scares him, that he thinks so much about it, so he calls Sugawara and asks him to take them away.

                He blames himself, because maybe if he hadn’t called Tooru that day, he would’ve payed more attention to the cars. Maybe Tooru was nervous about the ring, sitting heavy in the pocket of his jacket. Maybe he just was careless. He blames Tooru. Stupid Tooru. He just had to look at the road—if he’d looked, maybe they’d be married by now. If he’d looked, Hajime wouldn’t be so alone.

                He mourns for months. Hajime allows himself to be sad. He cries himself to sleep and wakes himself up sobbing, and he stops playing volleyball for a while—coach told him he would let Hajime play again when he felt like he could stand up again on his own. Hajime thinks about his words over and over again, he writes them down and thinks what they mean. _When you can stand up on your own again_. What if he never can?

                Suga comes by every day, and Hajime lets him. He hates him, at the beginning, because this is something Hajime has to do on his own—that’s what he thinks, at first. But he realizes that he doesn’t have to. He sleeps better when he knows Suga’s on his couch, and Hajime starts _talking_. He talks about Tooru and everything they went through, and he tells Suga how bad he misses him, how much he hates him, how much he wishes he were here.

                He goes to his team’s matches, though he never steps on the court. Not yet.

                Hajime calls Yahaba; Hanamaki offered to give him his phone number, and Hajime accepted. When they meet (not at a bar, but in the park) Yahaba _does_ ask how he’s doing, and Hajime breaks down once again. He can pick himself up this time, however.

                There are good days. There are bad days. Sometimes he wants to scream at Tooru for abandoning him, and sometimes he wants to kick himself for all the time he wasted when Tooru was alive. Takeru comes more often, and Hajime entertains him telling stories about his uncle, how great he was when he was playing volleyball, how great he was when he was working at the hospital. Takeru opens his eyes wide when Hajime tells him that he beat Ushiwaka at a volleyball match in college—Hajime can’t _believe_ that Tooru never told him—and even though there’s no one behind him, Hajime can almost hear a chuckle.

                Seven months after Tooru’s death, Hajime, Hanamaki and Matsukawa go visit his tomb. They bring flowers and milk bread and kind words. Hanamaki cries like a baby, and even after all this time, Matsukawa holds him. Hajime smiles at them, and he means it from the bottom of his heart when he says that he’s happy they are still together.

                He starts playing again. It’s been eight months since he played volleyball, and the smiles he flashes when coach tells him it’s his turn is genuine. Kuroo slaps his back and laughs, and Hanamaki starts chanting his name when Hajime finally, _finally_ , stands up from the bench.

 

* * *

 

 

They are twelve and Hajime can already tell this is the brattiest person he’s ever going to meet.

                Oikawa´s pointing at the stars and talking nonsense about aliens and people living in the dark side of the moon. They are in Hajime’s rooftop, because Oikawa`s parents work tonight and he usually stays with Hajime when that happens. He couldn’t sleep—Hajime heard him crying from his bed, asked what was happening. “My parents are going to get a divorce,” he whimpered. Hajime thought that the starts might cheer him up.

                He was right.

                “I want to be an astronaut when I grow up,” Oikawa says.

                Hajime tilts his head to his side, watches Oikawa silently. The other boy has his eyes closed, lips curved up in a smile. A genuine smile, one Hajime would know like the back of his palm in the future. Hajime smiles too, content to just be here with Oikawa. He takes Oikawa’s hand and Oikawa’s smile grows even bigger. They have their whole lives ahead of themselves. Hajime couldn’t be happier.         

**Author's Note:**

> This was so ansgty :( I'm sorry but at least I hope you liked it!!! You can tell me what you think on the comments or maybe come scream with me about iwaoi on my twitter (@judetwine) or tumblr (@itsthebats) <3


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